Lights of New York
by Demented Insane Spirit
Summary: Margo Green reflects on her vague, but intense relationship with Agent Pendergast after the many adventures with the beast, Mbwun. One shot.


DIS: This happens to be a recent obsession I discovered. I never knew there was a book series with Pendergast until recently, so please be gentle. I'm working on this from _Relic _and _Reliquary_, my two favorite books. This is also my first attempt at this book, so if it's lacking, I apologize most deeply.

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_Title: Lights of New York_

_Rating: K_

_Genre: General/Romance_

_Summary: Margo Green reflects on her vague, but intense relationship with Agent Pendergast after the many adventures with the beast, Mbwun. Drabble._

_Disclaimer: Nope, there isn't any way I owe the great books of _Relic _or _Reliquary.

_Notes/Warnings: Margo/Pendergast implications; drabble; first time at _Relic/Reliquary _fic_

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_Lights of New York_

Margo sat quietly in Hotel des Artistes, her hands cupping a warm cup of coffee. She supposed that the call from the FBI Agent, Pendergast, should have been no surprise. Five months ago, when she had had her second near-death experience, both occurring in the past two years, Margo had dimly noticed that Pendergast didn't see her as just an informant as she had suspected. She might even go as so far to venture a guess that she might be considered a friend.

The true worry that had been on his face when she had first been discovered, still and lifeless on the shoreline, was not feigned and it had been vastly reassuring. _At least someone cares, _she remembered thinking at the time, having barely paid attention to Lieutenant D'Agosta's agitation and Bill Smithback's even greater anxiety. It never appeared to her, not even at that moment, that she had grown fond of Pendergast's eccentricities.

Smugly, Margo admitted to herself, _If I hadn't insisted on going along with him, he would be long dead – we all would, I suspect. _She chuckled softly beneath her breath, smiling lightly. She reminded both him and D'Agosta of that fact so they didn't think her a weak woman – which D'Agosta had simply stared at and Pendergast had assured that his want to keep her safe had nothing to with her gender. She highly doubted such a thing.

Taking a drink of her black coffee, Margo let her eyes move around the warm interior of Hotel des Artistes. It was a comfortable café that she and Bill often went to, usually when he wanted something (information, of course.) Her eyes drooped sadly. There had been days when she had been only a graduate student when she and her advisor, Whitney Frock, would sit and discuss her dissertation. _Dr. Frock was a wonderful scientist..._ She thought, unable to compare her kind-hearted, dear advisor to the monster who perished in the collapse of the Crystal Pavilion. _Just like Kawakita... Is this really what _good_ scientists do to themselves to continue their work? Sacrifice their own lives, their own mortality, merely to discover science? _But Margo held no answer to her silent question.

"...Dr. Green?" Startled from her thoughts, she turned her vacant, staring gaze from her coffee cup to the pale, narrow features of Agent Pendergast. His coat was draped over his arm and he looked as elegant as ever with a silk, black suit and his white-blonde hair smoothed back. His soft, light azure eyes locked on hers in question, his feathery brows raising ever so slightly.

Hastily forcing a reassuring smile on her lips, she shook her head and said, "It's nothing. Please sit, Pendergast." His mouth tilted up and he took the seat near her, looking curiously at her half-finished coffee. "I came a bit early since I wasn't sure if Bill would be here. This is, after all, one of his haunts." She also knew that Pendergast didn't quite care for Bill, although he was just as polite to him as he would be to any other person.

"Ah," Pendergast said with complete understanding. "Thank you for your precautions, then, Margo." Her brow furrowed slightly at his constant change from Dr. Green to Margo. He did it often and it caught her in a midst of confusion. Before addressing him, she tended to wonder whether she should call him 'Agent' either for respect or merely to irritate him. She had made the mistake of doing just that and a queer expression had come on his face before he had said quietly, "Simply Pendergast will do, I should think, Margo."

The waiter teetered over to their table, his wide, bulging eyes taking it every inch of Margo's companion. He slowly slid his gaze to her, eyeing her, as well. One of his eyebrows twitched upward and she gritted her teeth, knowing well what horrible thoughts he was thinking. After that brief pause, he queried the Agent, "What can I get for this gentlemen friend of yours?" His tone almost sounded caustic when he said "gentlemen friend." Clearly he was under the impression he was more of a friend.

Margo knew that Pendergast had not missed the insinuation behind the waiter's words, but all he said was, "Another black coffee, please." He gave his polite, charming smile to erase the surprise of his low, silky Southern voice. The waiter eyed him suspiciously before nodding and leaving. Pendergast didn't speak until after his coffee had arrived and the waiter was gone, filling Margo's cup before doing so. "I imagine you wonder why I called you, Margo."

"I want to believe it's a mere social call," she responded, taking a careful drink of her hot coffee. He blew on his own. As an afterthought, she added, "And if it isn't, please don't say that some bizarre murders that relate to certain others are happening again." His mouth curved pleasantly and a low chuckle erupted from his throat.

"No," he assured, "nothing such as that. In fact, I did call you on a more social matter." She looked to him through the corner of his eye, noticing he did not say it _was_ a social matter. As Margo observed him, he was pointing the same look to her, waiting for her to say something. Instead, she stubbornly remained silent, taking a drink of her coffee and struggling against the burn of it on her tongue. The twitch of his mouth suggested that he knew very well the reason for her flinch. "I have not seen you in the past three months and have heard little from you, as well as D'Agosta. I wanted to make certain you were well."

"As you can see, Agent, I am as in tact as I can be," she told him, wondering why she had used his title so abruptly. It was hard to irritate Pendergast, but when it came to her addressing him so formally, it was more than easy and not only irritation but anger. Shifting in her seat, feeling the heat of his emotions roiling off him, she tentatively said, "I, ah, have you to thank for that, Pendergast." He mildly raised his eyebrows and she cleared her throat, explaining, "You always had me at your back so I wouldn't get hurt."

"...You were the most vulnerable of us," he responded, easing back into a comfortable companion. He took a drink of his coffee, having allowed it to cool. "Not to say that because you are a female or a curator," he added with a dry smile, "only that you are less experienced than myself or D'Agosta was; even more so than Mephisto." She nodded, turning her cup in her hand, letting her hands become warm. He watched her for awhile, as though he sensed the inner struggle of discussing those memories with him. "It is hard to get work in New York," he said abruptly, knowing her reluctance to dredge up nightmares.

"Oh? I would have expected it easy," she confessed, relieved to have escaped the discussion of Mbwun, of Frock, of what she considered the center of evil. "New York is so full of activity and criminals."

"Yes, but the police take care of that well enough. It is the _real_ crimes that we modest FBI Agents must deal with." Margo smiled behind her cup, unable to see FBI Agents as modest. Perhaps Pendergast was, but she doubted that a great majority of others were. "Walk with me a bit," he said, a firm suggestion that gave no argument. He flicked a five-dollar-bill on the table for the tip and was generous enough to also pay for the bill of their drinks.

Margo followed Pendergast outside, tugging her coat on. It was nearing the end of winter and was close to spring weather, so the temperature was a mild enough one. The two of them blended in with the crowds of New Yorkers, enclosed in the crowded space. Once or twice Pendergast's hand would brush her arm, as though preparing to grab her in case she was wrenched away. It was a nice thought, but he had a greater chance of being lost than her.

The crowds thinned and Margo realized they were overlooking the ocean and docks. She paused and glanced around, finding a bench nearby. He glanced to her as she settled on the bench before following. Despite the filth of the city, the corruption of the politicians, and the many idiots to deal with, Margo couldn't help but find New York beautiful, especially at this time of night. Only the glittering lights of busy humans could be seen with the outlines of tall, intimidating buildings. "Ah..." Pendergast murmured beside her, "The lights of New York. Truly beautiful. Deceptive, but beautiful." She nodded mutely.

"It's a nice view. But, yes, it is deceptive. I doubt that many people enjoy it past the surface." Glancing to him, Margo saw a corner of his mouth tilt in wry amusement. "What of yourself, Pendergast? Do you like New York?"

"Hmm... Yes, I would have to say I rather enjoy it. There are charming people here in New York." She blinked as he turned to meet her gaze placidly. She held it for a moment before looking away, uncomfortable with the intensity of his pale, soft eyes. His fingers brushed her shoulder and she was reminded of how he had placed his fingers on her lips after they had found her on the shore.

"I thought I recognized you two," a gruff, loud voice grunted from behind. They turned to see Lieutenant D'Agosta with his young son at his side. Margo could feel his interested gaze flicker between the two of them and felt her cheeks burning. She rarely allowed herself delusions with men, but for one instant, she was almost certain...

"Vincent," Pendergast greeted, rising to his feet, his voice silky. Was she mistaken or was there a hint of color to his pale face? "How nice to see you." He looked to D'Agosta's son who stared up at him with blinking eyes. "And a pleasure to meet you, young man." The boy looked to Margo curiously.

"Oh," he said with a bright smile, the two teeth in the front missing, "you must be his wife. Do you have any children?" Pendergast cleared his throat uncomfortably while Margo gawked at D'Agosta, her face surely red at this point. He looked just as embarrassed as they did.

"Well, I shall say goodbye," Pendergast said to them, inclining his head. "Vincent...Margo." His gaze lingered on her flushed face, but he took his leave as promised. D'Agosta glared after Pendergast.

"Goddamned FBI Agent... Always gets out of this kind of shit," he growled. His son looked bemused at their actions. Margo chuckled and she glanced behind her at the lights she and Pendergast had been gazing at only a moment ago.

_Such beautiful lights, _she thought, smiling to herself.

_Finis_

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DIS: I always like to start out with a drabble when I start a new fandom. So...What did you guys think? If it sucks, then just say so. I know it isn't the best. Ciao!


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